Wind does not stir,

My delicate paper boats,

With that cold breath of hers.

They float gently on,

Oblivious in their bliss,

As if nothing were wrong.

Should a storm brew,

They'd float on, calm,

Despite how strong the wind grew.

And should they be pulled under,

Would they care? But no,

So gently, they'd surrender.

And it is that apathy I long for,

As I rage and sob,

And my pain becomes definite, sure.

But these wishes go unheard,

As they do for all hopeful wishers,

And we remain caged birds.